Rounding it all out is Halsey Holmes. A book nerd, the quiet one, the mysterious center with the speed of a goddamn gazelle, he holds the record for most goals in Agitators history and has the girthiest dick on the team. We’re talking a thick motherfucker that scared me once in the shower. He’s currently married—got married over the summer—to Blakely, who works for the Agitators and Cane Enterprises. Yeah, both. Blakely is so good that after the wedding, the Agitators front office asked her to do some contract work and gave her office space so she could work both jobs while being close to her husband. Talk about fucking power. She’s also Penny’s best friend. But Blakely and Halsey are happily married and in love . . . because of me!
Are you seeing a trend here?
All these assholes are head over heels, living in their lover era, because of me.
OC, Oden O’Connor, is the only lonely one left besides yours truly because I haven’t had the chance to dig my meaty claws into him yet. But word on the street is he has a thing with one of our athletic trainers. We got drunk one night and shared some secrets. He told me about Grace, and well . . . we don’t have to talk about what I told him.
“I have a hell of a lot more respect for bologna than to refer to my dick as the most delicious meaty substance ever formed,” I say. “So no, I wasn’t talking about something else. I was talking about my fucking bologna. Someone has been eating it.”
“You sound like one of those bears from that Goldilocks story,” OC says. And then in a deep voice, he carries on, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. Someone’s been eating my bologna.”
“If only someone has been sleeping in my bed,” I mutter. Been a bit of a drought as of late. I blame these teammates of mine. I’ve been so busy taking care of their lives that I haven’t been able to take care of mine.
But that stops today.
After tonight’s game, I’m going out, and I’m going to pick someone up. We are going to fuck. My dick will be happy. And then everything will be right in the world.
“You really should get yourself a girlfriend,” Taters says as he kicks back and puts his feet up on one of the tables. I quickly push his feet off.
“Show some respect. Pacey nervously eats his protein bar on that table before games,” I chastise.
“Seriously, though, wasn’t it last season when OC let the cat out of the bag and told us that you’re crushing on some girl? What ever happened with that?”
OC slowly sinks into his chair, knowing full well he broke our drunk-guy code that night. It was in a text thread. He was getting all riled up, probably trying to gain likes since he was the new guy at the time, and blurted it out. He received a stern talking-to after that and was put on probation.
He has yet to be fully trusted again.
“Nothing happened,” I answer. “And it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. That is private information that never should have seen the light of day in the group chat.”
“Says the guy who butts into everyone else’s love lives,” says Taters.
“Oh fuck off,” I say as I take a seat at the table, bologna sandwich-less. “The only love life I butted in on was Halsey’s, but that’s because it was low-hanging fruit, and there was no way he was going to pluck it. Other than that, I was a savior to the rest of you. And you’re welcome, by the way. I take presents as thank-yous. Expensive watches, fancy shoes, and tailored suits.”
“You’re delusional,” Taters says.
I glance over at the fridge, contemplating what to do. I need a sandwich before my game, but I’m not one to send an SOS to the staff. If this were Taters or Hornsby, they probably would have already sent someone to the store to buy more bologna.
Not me. I’m a gentleman, not a diva.
“It looks like he’s thinking about his sandwich,” OC says.
“That’s because he is. He needs one before every game.”
I stare my two teammates down. “It gives me protein and energy,” I say. “It makes me skate harder and faster. It gives me comfort and ease. Bologna is the reason I’m able to accurately dig the puck away from our opponent from behind the net. It isn’t just any sandwich. It’s magic. So excuse me for needing that fucking sandwich.” My fists grow tight as I try to take calming breaths and . . . wait. I turn toward OC and Taters and say, “Did one of you motherfuckers take my bologna? Because if you did, it’s not funny. So just bring me my bologna, and no one will get hurt.”
I hold out my hand, but Taters and OC don’t move.
Finally, OC says, “Dude, although it’s slightly entertaining watching you spiral over processed meat, I know better than to fuck with your bologna.”
“Same,” Taters says, holding his hands up in defense. “The whole team knows better.”
I slam my fist on the table. “Then who the fuck did it?”
“Posey!” I nearly fly out of my chair at the sound of my coach’s voice. I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the cafeteria, looking like he’s ready to blow his fist through the wall.
Did he . . . did he take my bologna?
“Coach Wood,” I say, straightening up. “Can I help you—”
“My office. Now.” He walks away, his bald head glistening under the fluorescent lights in the hallway.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I think my dick just shriveled up.”
“If yours didn’t, mine sure as hell did,” OC says.
“What the hell could that be about?” Taters asks, looking concerned.
“I don’t know, but will you come with me and hold my hand?” I ask.
“Fuck, no.” Taters shakes his head. “You’re on your own.”
I glance over at OC, and he shakes his head as well. “Sorry, man. That’s a you thing.”
“And here I thought you were my friends. My family.” I push my chair in and head down the hallway toward my coach’s office.
Sure, I might be a thirty-two-year-old man with plenty of life experience under my belt, but that will never change the fact that I still want to weep into my pillow when my coach demands I join him in his office. From college to professional, I’ve always feared the dreaded office visit because nothing good comes from it.
Nothing.
It means they’ve found out about something you did, and you have to sit there and get lectured and berated about how you need to be a better example. How you need to be a better representative for the team.
Like, don’t fuck your teammate’s sister.
That was college.
Don’t get wasted the night before a game and sit your bare ass on the coach’s car windshield that’s covered in snow.
Also college.
Don’t run around the locker room naked and towel-whip your teammates in the ass.
That was last season before the playoffs, and to be honest, the zip in the ass propelled us to win the Cup . . . so once again, some thanks would be appreciated.
I probably have two solid years left on the ice, but that doesn’t lessen the anxiety ramping up in my chest over what Coach Wood will say to me.
I have this sick and twisted feeling in my stomach about what’s going to happen.
I very much want to do anything to please my coach because that’s how I was raised. Respect your coach, do what he says, don’t fuck up.
Well . . . looks like I’ve fucked up, and I don’t know how.
It’s not like I’ve fucked anyone recently, which is what most of my infractions are, despite not mentioning them above. I fuck the wrong person, and it comes back to bite me in the ass.
The reporter.
The opposing team’s social media manager.
The owner’s wife.
Oye, that one nearly got me kicked out of the league.
But in my defense, I wasn’t aware of these things, and it wasn’t until later that I found out my dick was in the wrong pussy.
The very wrong pussy.
But this can’t be that. Lately, I’ve developed a difficult case of blue balls.
So what could it be?
When I reach his door, I give it a knock only for him to yell, “Get your ass in here.”
Yup, dick is completely shriveled.
I’m in trouble.
Is this a baby mama situation?
Please no, please no baby mamas. I’m not ready for diapers and bottles. I’m still as immature as a twelve-year-old.
On a shaky breath, I walk into his office and find him sitting in his chair, leaning back, hands crossed over his stomach.
I nervously lift my hand at him in a wave.
“Sit,” he says tersely, so I quickly take a seat and look him in the eyes. If I know one thing about Coach Wood, he doesn’t like squirrely men. He likes confident players, so even though my innards shiver in fear, I’ll still pay him the respect he demands. “Do you remember the time I saved you from making a grave mistake in Washington?”
Ehhh . . . what?
I mean, yes, I do, but that is not the first sentence I expected him to say.
I shift in my chair. “Uh, with that one girl at the bar?” I ask.
He nods. “She was an undercover reporter, and you had no idea. You were about to take her up to your room, and I stopped you.”
I nod. “Yes, you really did me a solid there,” I say, unsure of where this is going since that was over a year ago.
“I’m glad you see it that way.” He leans forward and places his hands on his desk. Looking me dead in the eyes, he says, “I’m going to need you to return the favor.”
“Uhh . . . you want me to stop you from taking an undercover reporter up to your room?”
“No, you moron.” He sighs with irritation. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Oh.” I nervously chuckle. “Well, that I can do.”
“Good.” He clasps his hands together. “I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”
“You have a daughter? When did that happen?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“Huh, interesting.” He has a daughter? How many years has he been our coach? How the hell did we not know he had a daughter? I cross one leg over the other and casually say, “You know, we don’t get to talk much. What is she like? Are you close with her? Do you—”
“Can you shut the fuck up?”
I uncross my leg and sit up straight. “Yup, of course. So . . . you were saying . . .”
“I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”
Confused, I tilt my head to the side and say, “Uh, what kind of lesson, sir? Because I’ll be honest with you, education and school really weren’t my strong suit. Wasn’t really into the whole learning thing or tutoring. Although I do excel at meddling. Perhaps I can offer you some help in that regard.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly growing increasingly more frustrated with me by the second. Too bad for him, I grow more irritating the more nervous I am. “Not an actual lesson. Jesus fuck, Posey, you need to stop getting into fights on the ice.” He picks up a pen and clicks it a few times. “I need you to hire my daughter as your personal assistant. I know you don’t have one, correct?”
“Correct,” I answer. “But how is me hiring your daughter as my personal assistant going to teach her a lesson?”
“Glad you asked.” He leans back in his chair now, looking more like a manipulating mastermind than the scary coach who screams at me daily. “My daughter, Wylie, has recently told me she wants to quit school, even though she has one year left in her master’s program. She’s been taking business classes, setting herself up for a great future, but instead wants to pursue graphic art.”
“Ah.” I nod, not quite understanding. “And that is a . . . bad thing?”
“Yes, it’s a bad thing. Do you really think I want my daughter to be a struggling artist?”
“Well, to be fair,” I say, “she does have you as a father, so would she really be struggling?”
His eyes narrow, and I realize that maybe I don’t debate him on the welfare of his child but instead go along with whatever plan he has in mind.
“Although.” I nervously laugh. “It would be a great life lesson to learn if she sees what kind of hardship it would be to be a struggling artist in a world of capitalism.”
That lightens the scowl in his forehead. Despite the many fights on the ice, that was a pretty impressive comeback if I do say so myself.